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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518063">Easter Past, Present, and Future</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_313/pseuds/Em_313'>Em_313</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brotherhood, Child Death, Childhood, Easter, Easter Egg Hunt, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Roman Catholicism, Storyteller Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:54:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>471</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_313/pseuds/Em_313</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack, Kat, and Co. Easters gone by: </p><p>1. Past- Jack - Holy Week/Easter 1888<br/>2. Past- Kat - Easter 1888<br/>3. Present - Jack - Newsboys Easter Egg Hunt 1898<br/>4. Present - Kat - Prep School Kat Easter 1898<br/>5. Future - Kat, Jack, and Kids - Easter 1908</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Easter Past, Present, and Future</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Holy Saturday 1888 </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Jack almost 6, Ciara almost 5 </strong>
</p><p>Jack knew Easter Weekend was supposed to be quiet, but this was unbearable. He and Ciara weren’t allowed to do <em>anything</em>: They didn’t dare raise their voices. They couldn’t be too loud or rough. The kids of the building didn’t play jump rope or jacks in the alley, even though it was clear and sunny outside. It was like the Sabbath, but <em>three whole days</em> instead of just one.</p><p>His father promised he had Easter Sunday off, but the rest of Holy Week, he’d laid bricks from dawn to dinnertime. Ciara played with her dolls, and dangled her feet off the fire escape when their mother wasn’t looking. Jack sorted his marble collection. Evelyn, their mother, sewed and cooked their meals and tucked them into bed at night. Almost like normal. But nothing was normal.</p><p>They’d buried Molly just 21 days before. Molly was almost 1, with round cheeks, fluffy red hair, and her mother’s smile. She’d caught a cough, and three days later it stole her breath away. It was that quick. The weekend of her funeral, the city was pummeled by a snowstorm like no one had ever seen. All hints of spring vanished.</p><p>A week later, on what was supposed to be her first birthday, Pat had left for work before sunrise. Evelyn served breakfast through fog. “Mama, Baby Molly gets to spend all of her birthdays with Jesus!” Ciara had blurted out, and their mother had burst into tears.</p><p>And now, on Holy Saturday, Evelyn made Ciara and Jack go to bed right after dinner, even though it was practically still light outside. “The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we’ll wake up and it will be Easter!” Evelyn told them. She forced herself to smile.</p><p>But Jack couldn’t get to sleep. Ciara, laying beside him in the bed they shared, breathed steadily. A few feet away--they only had one bedroom, so Ciara and Jack’s bed was in a corner of the narrow living room--Pat sat at the kitchen table, staring into a glass of whiskey. Jack sat up and tiptoed across the floor. “Go to bed, Jack,” Pat grunted. Jack ignored him.</p><p>The bedroom door was ajar, and Jack hovered in the doorway. His mother was on her knees, black skirt falling around her feet. She only wore black now. The brass Celtic cross she’d brought all the way from the Wicklow Mountains hung on the wall, glinting in candlelight. Evelyn was whispering. No. She was begging, arguing with God. <em>“Oh Father, You know my pain, but God why my Molly Anne? Why my Molly Anne, Lord? Holy Mary, Mother of God, why?”</em></p><p>A heavy hand fell on Jack’s shoulder and he jumped. Da. “Let ya mama be, lad,” Pat said. “C’mon to bed.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know this one is sad!! (it will make more sense/probably be even sadder if you've read The Storyteller, but that's not needed). I promise the rest of them will be happier! Let me know what you think! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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